


Fleurir

by Froggiespit



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Flowers, Gift Giving, Ill explain in the notes at the end of each chapter what the flowers mean!, Language of Flowers, M/M, Ramin Karimloo Valjean, gift giving as a love language, les miserables in 2020? more likely than you think, will swenson javert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26786374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Froggiespit/pseuds/Froggiespit
Summary: Inspector Javert has flowers show up on his stoop twice a week. He has no idea where they are coming from.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 12
Kudos: 36





	1. Peruvian Lilies

**Author's Note:**

> Peruvian Lilies symbolize friendship and devotion. They can also symbolize purity.

Inspector Javert is not tired, no, so much more than tired. The man is downright burnt out. He walks with his back as straight as an arrow within its quiver, his uniform buttoned neatly and with not a hair out of place. Usually, when Javert looks good he _feels_ good. 

Usually. 

There is a profound ache that settles within the very core of his bones and his eyes sting when he dares take a second to blink. A steady thudding prods behind his right temple and he winces at the thought of having to continue his night with a potential migraine. The thought graces his mind that perhaps, just perhaps this is his body finally capitulating after years upon years of not being properly taken care of. Money was often tight, but not tight enough that he should have trouble getting fed, though there were nights on occasion where he would turn over in his sheets with a sharp rumble gathering in his stomach. Perhaps it is the cold as well. This time of year Paris tends to begin to catch a chill and almost ironically Javert’s hearth has never been warmer. With the cold weather comes a spike in desperation-fueled crimes, which gives him ample opportunity to fuel his own stove. 

It is not nearly so cold yet, but the breeze bites at the apples of his cheeks in a way that suggests it is not too far forgotten. Luckily, the walk from the Station is not too unbearably far from his own residence. To a better man, the walk may even be enjoyable—but Javert is no better man. With the exhaustion claiming his senses, he hardly pays the stones under his boots proper mind. Muscle memory is a beautiful phenomenon, allowing the man to slip into a sort of autopilot for the remainder of his walk. 

Unfortunately, when his body is not aware, his mind is painfully so. There’s much to mull over in the coming days, and if he can plan it out now rather than later over his dinner he gladly will. It’s Tuesday and his patrol was given the absolutely unheard of chance to go home early, which usually Javert would turn his nose up at, but the promise of even an extra hour of sleep is like a balm to his wounds after nearly 36 hours without it. Early the next morning he must report to his duties, not necessarily until 8 am, but early to rise from the bed is early to rise through the ranks. He will be outside his house by 6 am, no matter how angrily his body protests. 

As the walk drags on, he has to manually ensure his posture doesn’t falter despite the insistent ache of his shoulders to _just turn inward a fraction of a degree for God’s sake!_ Luckily enough, a simple glance ahead reassures him that his door cannot be more than 50 feet away: his bed 65. The thought of shedding his uniform for a linen shirt and a nest of sheets feels like the mercy of God himself, his steps becoming a little more purposeful and his stride becoming increasingly long. 

The space he rents is nestled in the slim notch between a nearly bankrupt bookstore and what used to be an Inn at one point. The building is entirely abandoned now, windows cracked and caked in thick blankets of dust. Nobody has taken to renting it, probably because Javert lives where the old Innkeeper had once lived, but he doesn’t mind. The lack of neighbors means two things: 

One, he is blessed with the often unappreciated gift of silence, and two, there is always the chance that a squatter will find their way onto his patrol and indirectly help him make rent that month. 

With a tired huff, Javert finds himself coming to a stop at his stoop. Nestled neatly against the corner of his sagging door frame is what appears to be a bundle of Peruvian Lilies tied with butcher’s paper and twine. The man blinks as if mystified and lowers himself with a grunt to pick them from the ground. 

The paper is crisp and waxed, not yet soggy with the moisture of the street, and the twine is tied in an elongated bow, far too elegantly to be done by the average urchin. He gets to his feet, turns the flowers between hands repeatedly, and gives the street a quick pass. Nobody seems to be paying him much attention, which is strange considering the fact that this very clearly must be a case of mistaken address. Surely someone will come to claim the flowers within the hour, especially given how obviously expensive such a bouquet would be. 

Peruvian lilies! Surely a young lover meant to leave these at a different door? After all, the doors along the street appear so similar and it would be such an easy mistake...but yet the street itself isn’t residential! He’s the only one living on the street aside from the business surrounding his home. Surely...surely these were not left for him. This must be a joke and he *must* be the butt of it. Javert hasn’t the time for these games. With a huff he shakes his head, walking the short distance to the waste collection corner of the street. Without a second thought, he tosses the bouquet on top of the bin, rubbing his hand along the hem of his coat as if the item offended him. At least if the bouquet is visible to any passerby, they will get the message that it was the wrong address and hopefully not repeat it. He’s too tired to pay it much mind, instead turning on his heel and heading into his home. 


	2. Yellow Pansies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter, but that's mostly because of my current course and workload!

It’s Friday morning when Javert receives the second shipment of flowers. The sun is not yet washing the edges of the streets with its golden glaze, nor has the dew dried from the panes of his windows, and yet he’s awake. He doesn’t move yet, simply blinking towards the dark rectangle of his window 

He rose from his bed an hour prior at 6 am, stretching restlessly in his sheets before he found the energy to add another log to the fire and begin his morning. Had it been a Sunday he would have allowed himself warm water to wash with, but having slept in already enough as it is, he forgoes it. Still, with a thin rag and cold water he scrubs himself pink, brushes through the knots of his hair, and takes to brushing his teeth while he gets his socks on. Javert would be the first to admit he is not one for multitasking, but given his job, it’s rather important that he finds the time to become used to it despite the fact that he very obviously works better when he can fully devote himself to one thing at a time. It reminds him of Jean Valjean for a moment, like most things unfortunately do, the fact that he’s been a focus of his for over a handful of years now. It's tiring, and yet is what keeps him going some days.

Lost in thought, by the time he’s finished grooming and dressing, it’s nearly 8 am and he hasn’t the time to consider breaking his fast properly. It would be the cause of minor speculation, though he supposes he can spare a few stray moments and money on a nearby bakery—though he would very much rather save the money himself. Still, the concept of possibly being late to his post strikes something cold like fear within him. He gathers himself, presses his hair down, dons his hat, and rushes out the door. 

His boot catches on something with a crinkle. He winces and looks down to find the trodden flowers. Yellow Pansies. Amongst the mess of bruised petals and snapped stems is a single piece of thick paper, folded over itself and branded with the tread of his boot. He huffs, bends at his knees, and straightens with the paper in his hands. He really shouldn’t read it, especially if it's not meant for him--but to be left at his door once again? Had the dandy in question not taken the hint that this is absolutely not the correct address? How should he go about returning the money invested in the flowers? Going against his better thinking, he looks around quickly at the dim street and flips the paper open. 

“Tu ne préfères pas les lys?” is written in the most elegant, loopy handwriting he has ever seen. If not for the heavy-handedness of it all, he would have nearly thought it to have belonged to a woman. Really, the mistake has gone beyond just that-- a mistake. To deliver a second bouquet? A mistake is only a mistake once. After that, it is a decision. 

He crumples the cardstock in his gloved hand, shoving it deep into the pocket of his coat. As for the ruined Pansies, he stoops low for a moment under his arch, carefully scooping the bruised, wrinkled yellow petals into his palms like he would shatter glass or cooling coals.   
With rushed steps he finds his way to the garbage, cupping his hands as if he were hiding gold within them, only parting his palms to let the evidence fall away with the rest of the waste. By the late morning, they will be completely covered. Eggshells, coffee grounds, broken plates, and other garbage will hide the goodness, much like the good of man hidden amongst these cold streets. 

Javert clears his throat, brushes his hands off, and clasps them behind his back nonchalantly as he leaves his own house and enters the house of the common. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yellow Pansies are often used in flower language to convey "I am thinking of you."


	3. White Zinnias

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> White Zinnias are used to praise one's sense of "Goodness."
> 
> Sorry for not posting as often as I should! I'm still very into Les Mis and this work, but I have a job and I'm a full-time student as well! I'm going to try to have the next chapter up in a few weeks or so--depending on how quickly my classes pick up. I hope you all are doing well with the pandemic and are taking care of yourselves! Happy reading <3
> 
> \--frog

Javert often thinks of God. God above, so unending and undying in his love. How such a being can shine down, draping all he sees with his love, despite how wretched one may seem. Only truly does god know a man, as no other man can delve as deep. In the early hours of his day, when he shivers awake and his window is glazed in gold, he feels seen. 

He feels known. He is not the callus of his hands, he is not the downward pull of his lip, he is not his anger or his loneliness or his infamy. He is a man, as good and tried as any man. He is the son of a father, nothing more. It is these times he is silently moved to tears. He rises early most mornings, but on ones like this, he finds himself slipping from his bed onto his knees with his face just touching his neatly folded hands. 

He knows he is not a good man, but he also feels he is not a bad man. Everything he does comes at a cost, but in nearly every case he feels it outweighs the negatives. A man who shows such an obvious disregard for the rules of society is not and should not be allowed to partake in such a gift. The job weighs heavy on him some days. 

Men’s wives fall at his feet and sob, pull at his pants, and scream for him to be merciful--as if he has any choice. Women claim a starving child, a sick child, and beg for anything but a prison lest her child die. Strange men pry the charged woman from him and claim the child as a ward. This same man who cradled her and pushed the sweat from her face and told her she is saved. 

A man cannot save a soul, that alone Javert knows.

Sometimes Javert wants to be God if only for a moment, to see the truth of man. He has no doubt, not a single doubt in his mind, that even the loveliest man can hold something dark inside: mayor or not. Javert rises and stretches in his bed, sighing when his back shifts and pops just right. It’s early enough that he has to justify getting ready for the day, but after pouring over paperwork the night before he’s left spread a little thin in the rest department. Routine has become a large portion of his life and in mornings like this, he does each step with reverence, because each moment is something to be thankful for. He prays for nearly twenty minutes, until his knees feel old beneath him and his stomach growls too angrily to be ignored. 

Communion, then. 

Javert is not a very good cook, he's the first to admit it, but damned if he won’t try. Eggs aren't terribly hard to prepare, so it makes an easy meal. It isn't long before the room smells like the bold scent of black coffee and fresh Mouillettes, and despite being in his pajamas still, if he closes his eyes enough he can imagine what it might be like to take a break at one of the local shops during the day. To sit amongst the other patrons and feel as if he isn’t ostracized in one way or another, it's too much of a dream to become reality. The food is carefully plated and set at the table, the chair is pulled back, and he scoots himself in. After a few sips of coffee, he feels a tad more awake, and yet just as he tries to take a bite--there is a knock at his door.

Of course, he would never admit it, but he nearly jumps out of his skin, the fork clattering down onto the table. Once the initial panic resides, he finds himself rubbing his hand across his eyes with a sigh. It’s not his day off per se, but he isn’t expected to report to the station for nearly five more hours, and being called in so early? He would be a little upset. 

Just as he is about to call out and say that he’s coming, there is another knock. He’s a little more upset this time, but still, he makes his way to the door, gathering his nightclothes around him and trying to run a hand through his hair so it’s a little less knotted. Nearly no one comes to visit, especially on his off day, so he isn’t incredibly worried about looking as if he is on duty. 

A cold hand wraps around the knob and inches the door open just enough to squeeze his upper torso out if need be. He’s expecting someone from work, so when he sees what looks like a boy around the age of 19 with a bundle of White Zinnias in his dirtied arms he raises his brows so high in surprise that they nearly hide under his bangs. 

“I believe you have the wrong address.” He starts, not intending on giving it another thought. Javert leans back into his house and begins to shut the door when the toe of a boot just between the door and the jamb. If he wasn’t annoyed, toppling over into anger, he is now. It shows in the drawn frown and the beginnings of lines around his eyes. 

“It’s a delivery, monsieur.”

“This early? It doesn’t look like it’s mine.” He gestures with an air of disgust that would probably kill a young man a little less in need of the tip. 

“Yes, monsieur—“ he pulls a piece of cardstock from the twine wrapped around the bundle and displays it, “I’m familiar with you I’m afraid, this is your address isn’t it?”

“Of course it is, but you misunderstand me, this isn’t mine.”

“It’s written out to you. There’s a message here—“

“From?”

“No sender, monsieur.” 

“Impossible. Who are you delivering for?”

“The florist.” The boy coughs, shrugging, and crinkling the butcher paper bouquet. 

Javert opens the door a little wider this time, crossing his arms across his chest with the same pride he would have had he been wearing his uniform. 

“You must believe me an idiot or perhaps the literacy rate is at a decline—this *bouquet* is not mine.”

The boy crinkles his face and brings the cardstock to his line of vision, clearing his throat. 

“To be delivered to one M. Javert at the earliest convenience. The note reads—“ he raises his voice considerably and with an air of theatrics, “oh how I long for you again! How much longer will we live without one another’s embrace. How much longer will you make me wait—“ 

Javert coughs in surprise, an uncomfortable flush burning under his skin. He shuts the door sharply and makes quick work of retrieving a tip from his pouch. The man takes a deep, lung aching breath before he swings the door open again and reaches for the flowers with one hand, and holds the money out with the other. 

“ _ Not out loud!” _ He hisses as if to shush him. 

The boy doesn’t seem to pay it any matter, happily pocketing the money and thrusting the bouquet into Javert’s arms. Still red as the day is long, he turns on his heel and very quickly slams and latches the door. He leans against the door and goes about unwrinkling the card, tucking the bouquet under his arm. He feels sort of lightheaded like there's a balloon swelling in his chest and he hates how part of him likes the feeling. With an exhale he pours over the note, holding it up with a shaky hand.

“You are a good man. Do not lose sight of that. Your work is appreciated.”

Logically, Javert wants to gag. Both because he is now sure that this isn't an accidental delivery and because how could someone write something so cheesy. Emotionally, it's pretty good timing. Although he doesn’t know who has sent him this, he can’t fully ignore how the corner of his lips quirk into a partial smile. 

White Zinnias. He isn’t a man who knows his flowers, but he can appreciate beauty when he sees it. His home isn’t particularly beautiful, with notches in the walls and chips in the furniture, but in mornings when the sun shines in, uninterested in what it might glaze over, he thinks it very well may be. Javert turns the bouquet over in his hands, crinkling the paper as he tries to smooth out any wrinkles. The garbage is too far away, and he would hate to walk about his front yard so underdressed… perhaps it can wait. 

The flowers rest across the room from him on his end table, staring at him the whole time he eats. 

Maybe today is one of those beautiful days, after all. 


End file.
